


Keep Your Tail Feathers Touching the Wind

by PhilosopherStrawberry



Category: Dance Gavin Dance (Band), Eidola (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhilosopherStrawberry/pseuds/PhilosopherStrawberry
Summary: He’s just a man in a world of gods, bound to a still unraveling fate.--Everything’s falling apart, so Andrew sets out to request the help of the almighty Swan Lords. As it turns out, the problem’s a little more complicated than expected.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, I follow the Church of Mess Twitter account, and the "doctrine/mythology" that was posted when Afterburner was released managed to spark both the idea for this piece and quite a bit of inspiration to actually write it. Not sure how many people are going to vibe with this as much as I do, but it's been really fun to work on, so hopefully somebody gets something out of it. This is only the beginning, but feel free to let me know what you think, if you so desire. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O Gavin, hellish muse, allow me to tell of the past and of the present...

According to the ancient scriptures, in the beginning, The Divine created everything. He made the earth, and the oceans, and others like him. The Divine shared his powers with those of his ilk, and together they agreed to keep everything in balance.

The mortals of the world, also brought into existence by The Divine, called these deities the Swan Lords.

For quite some time after the dawn of creation, peace remained. The mortals were blessed by the Swan Lords’ presence, their constant watchful eyes and loving care. Harmony was all but assured.

Then, one of the Swan Lords betrayed his brethren. He hungered for power and, drawing strength from his legions of mortal followers, yearned for undivided control over the world and all its inhabitants.

The war that broke out between the Fallen One, the one who was once the Lord of Darkness, and the other Swan Lords raged on for at least centuries, if not millennia. Eventually, though, the faithful Swan Lords, those that remained divine, were victorious against the Fallen One. They sealed him deep within the earth, where he couldn’t hurt anyone or anything. The Fallen One’s status as a true Swan Lord was revoked, and worship of him became heresy of the highest degree.

Nothing was ever truly the same after the Fallen One’s deception. The Swan Lords became distant from the rest of the world, and even from each other. They focused all their efforts on preventing another calamity, no matter the cost.

Over time, the true names of the Swan Lords became lost, and their existences endured only as myths and legends. Despite this, however, worship of them continued through the ages, and the Swan Lords always made sure to reward their loyal followers.

As it were, though, all good things are doomed to come to an end.

In current times, there seems to be a storm on the horizon, something just as devastating as the old war against the Fallen One. The earth is cracking, dark and tainted, crops are dying, and an ominous fog has been consuming the sky, black as night. Suffering is widespread, and as the desolation rises, it’s becoming harder to believe that survival is even an option.

Divine intervention from the Swan Lords is the last hope that the world has, and even that might not be enough.


	2. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...To sing the valiant tale of the one they call Andrew Wells, and his journey to meet with the Lord of Stability.

“Are you sure about this?”

Andrew looks up as Sergio speaks, attention drawn away from the act of securing his acoustic guitar into its case. There’s no nervousness in Sergio’s voice, no worry. The question is nothing more than what it appears to be: one of confirmation. It’s calculated and true to its words, just like Sergio himself.

“Yeah, I am,” Andrew responds. He meets Sergio’s eyes without hesitation, shows he has nothing to hide. He’s far beyond uncertain. “I have to do something. I have to at least try.”

Sergio nods, his expression remaining neutral. “Well, then I hope you know I’m coming with you.”

Andrew laughs at how matter-of-fact Sergio is and straps the guitar case on to his back. “Of course, you are. I wouldn’t expect any less.” 

Both of them smile, and, for a moment, Andrew feels at ease, the spark of hope in his chest flaring. Maybe they still have a chance. 

The village that Andrew and Sergio reside in, Ghost Town, has been suffering terribly for the last few months. They’d experienced a poor harvest, most of their crops withering within days of beginning to sprout, and all the trade routes to the town had been closed off. Travel has become dangerous as of late, and making the journey to a small settlement out in the middle of nowhere isn’t a risk any merchants are willing to take. Now all the inhabitants of Ghost Town can do is pray, not that it seems to be doing them much good. 

Heartbroken over the state of his hometown and the tragedy devastating it, Andrew had remembered an old legend he’d been told as a child. Supposedly, the lone mountain overlooking Ghost Town, Mount Satellite, was a location often frequented by one of the Swan Lords, the Lord of Stability. Talented musicians, seeking the Lord’s favor, would climb the mountain and play for him, as he was said to love music. Andrew’s crossing his fingers that nothing’s changed after all this time. 

Though, to be perfectly honest, he’s more worried about the fact that no one's seen a Swan Lord in thousands of years.

#

When Andrew and Sergio set out for Mount Satellite, the sun is just starting to pull itself over the horizon, bathing Ghost Town in an ethereal early morning glow.

They leave Andrew’s house and cross the town square in silence, the usually bustling location dead and deserted. Andrew shivers involuntarily at the sight, unnerved to see the village he’d lived in all his life so perfectly embody its name. 

From there, it’s not long before they’re out of the town proper and cutting through fields overgrown with weeds and tainted with the remnants of graying plants. To the untrained eye, it would seem like the area was abandoned some time ago, but Andrew and Sergio know better. 

The image of the frail, malnourished bodies of people they used to see every day is still fresh in their minds. 

As he and Sergio make it beyond the fields, Andrew feels a coldness deep within his bones, an unease that he used to only associate with cemeteries. He wonders if he should’ve held his breath. 

The feeling only begins to fade when they’re finally approaching the base of Mount Satellite, the mountain looming before them. Climbing it shouldn’t be too difficult considering the well-worn path carved into the face, but it’s still imposing nonetheless. 

It’s then, just as they’re drawing close to their destination, that Andrew notices that he only hears one set of footsteps plodding monotonously forward: his own. He stops walking, confused, and turns his head to find that Sergio is no longer at his side, but instead several feet behind him, looking deeply troubled. 

“This is as far as I can go,” Sergio says, speaking before Andrew can even ask him what’s wrong.

“What?” Andrew can’t help but laugh awkwardly, somewhere between disbelieving and unsettled. “Are you afraid of heights or something?” 

Sergio smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You could say that.” 

Andrew can hear his heart pounding in his ears, can feel his mouth go dry. He’d been joking around before, but the knowledge that Sergio, his best friend, would be with him during something so important, something that could save their village from utter decimation, had really helped take the edge off his anxiety. The thought of facing the Lord of Stability alone, be it his presence or his absence, is nothing less than terrifying. 

“Hey,” Sergio says, apparently catching the distress that must be bleeding into Andrew’s expression. He places his hand over his heart, an age-old gesture of commitment, and one normally reserved for worship of the Lords, at that. “No matter what happens, I’ll be here when you get back.” 

Andrew sighs deeply, the weight of solemn acceptance heavy in his chest. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

#

When he reaches the top of Mount Satellite, Andrew takes a moment to catch his breath.

The peak isn’t much, just a flat, circular area with an etching of a perfectly symmetrical diamond directly in the middle of it. Besides that, it appears completely untouched by anything other than nature, sporting no altar to preform sacrifices or statues as shows of dedication. In such a holy place, any marks of mortal interference, even ones of reverence, would seem markedly blasphemous.

Andrew wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, sweat dripping down from his hair and on to his face. Then, steeling himself as best he can, he takes his guitar case off his back and places it down in front of him. Making quick work of the latches, Andrew opens the lid and gazes down at the worn acoustic inside, movements careful as he goes to pick it up.

The guitar is older and has obviously seen a lot of use; it’s something of a miracle that it plays as well as it does. Andrew considers it his prized possession, an integral piece of his very existence. For as long as he can remember, the guitar's been the only constant in his life.

Well, besides Sergio.

With practiced grace, Andrew maneuvers the acoustic out of its case and slips the strap over his head, then reaches for the guitar pick in the pocket of his jeans. His hands are shaking as he positions them, guitar strings digging into his skin when he pushes down too hard on the frets. He wonders if he should say something, an introduction or an explanation, but decides against it. The song should speak for itself.

After a deep breath, a weak attempt to calm himself down, Andrew starts to play, fingers moving effortlessly, like he was born for this. As the song continues, he relaxes, gives his body over to the music. And, eventually, he opens his mouth to sing:

“First, we must prove we can work

That we are deserving of the penance and the sacred dirt

Because our constitution is buried in the soil

While our ambition seeks to ascertain and toil in the high.

Do you really know what’s real anymore?

Do you really know what’s real?

Then, we must move

Invite ourselves as conduits

To congregate in lieu

Of all the disparity we hold in our hearts

And the unanswered questions that tear us, tear us apart.

Do you really know what’s real anymore?

Do you really know what’s real?

I could show you everything I know

But I was told that honest art is dead

You could give me a bed when I’ve got nowhere to go

But you were told that good nature is all…”

Andrew prepares for the emotion of the next phrase, for the strain he needs to place on his voice. Before he can begin to sing again, though, a sudden blinding light appears just in front of him, completely obscuring his vision. The shine is so intense that Andrew can still see it faintly even after closing his eyes and taking his hand off the neck of his guitar in an attempt to shield his face.

When the light finally fades, Andrew drops his hand and opens his eyes to find that he’s no longer alone on the peak of Mount Satellite.

Standing before Andrew is what appears to be a tall, long limbed man dressed in dark jeans and a white button-down shirt. His dark blonde hair is slick and stylish, his eyes an effervescent green, and he radiates a sort of calming energy, a magnificence that draws in anyone close enough to feel it. Two angelic wings of golden light are unfolded behind him, shimmering like fallen stars.

Andrew stares at the entity in front of him, one of the Swan Lords of legend, and tries to speak, but just can’t seem to get his mouth to move. Though his brain is firing on all cylinders, his body adamantly refuses to respond.

The Swan Lord, the Lord of Stability, seems unbothered by this, and merely tilts his head a bit to the side, as if he’s trying to get a better look at Andrew. Slowly, the corners of his mouth turn up into something akin to a smirk, an expression that could only be described as fondness spreading across his features.

“You’re pretty good.”

#

Hearing the Lord of Stability’s voice, high and raspy, almost like it’s a struggle for him to speak, flips a switch inside Andrew, snapping him out of the strange trance he’d been stuck in.

Immediately after returning to his senses, Andrew drops to one knee, right hand moving to rest over his heart while his left hand prevents his guitar from knocking into the ground. His mind is racing, and he knows that everything he says and does from now on has to be so careful, so aware of the situation he's put himself in.

“Thank you, my Lord. I’m honored,” Andrew says, bowing his head. From his peripheral vision, he can see the Lord of Stability shuffle his feet, shifting his weight around awkwardly.

“Uh,” the Lord of Stability says, his voice sounding tighter than before. “You can stand, it’s alright. And, um, please just call me Tilian.”

Slowly, Andrew returns to his feet, taking the opportunity to place his guitar back in its case, as well. Once he’s standing again and able to get a good look at Tilian, it becomes obvious to Andrew that the Swan Lord is clearly embarrassed, seemingly due to the way Andrew's been acting toward him. For a moment, Andrew just watches as Tilian rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks flushed a pale pink. It’s a strange sight.

Realizing that Andrew’s waiting on him, Tilian proceeds to clear his throat, hands disappearing into the front pockets of his jeans. He shoots Andrew another closed-lip smile, almost as if he’s actively trying not to open his mouth.

“So…” Tilian says, rocking back on his heels. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why are you here? I haven’t had a visitor in I don’t even know how–”

Suddenly, Tilian stops speaking. His brow furrows as confusion spreads across his features, eyes narrowing and mouth forming words that he doesn’t actually speak. It’s like he’s only now really seeing Andrew, as if something that was missing before has finally slotted into place.

“I’m sorry,” Tilian says, taking a few cautious steps toward Andrew. “I just–”

Tilian reaches his hand out, fingers just barely brushing Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew can feel the warmth burning beneath the Swan Lord’s skin, can feel it bleeding into him like light banishing darkness. It’s nothing less than cleansing.

Andrew isn’t sure how long he stands there with Tilian, whether it’s only seconds or closer to an eternity, as time seems to lose all meaning just then. When the Swan Lord finally pulls away, it’s a bittersweet feeling, as the force of the loss nearly knocks the breath from Andrew’s lungs, but at least he no longer feels lightheaded, like he’d been exorcised from his own body.

Tilian looks down at his hand, thumb swiping over his fingers as if he’s cleaning them of dust. His expression is grave, and it strikes fear into the very core of Andrew’s heart.

“Is something wrong?” Andrew asks, not even sure if that’s what he actually wanted to say. None of this is going like he expected it to.

Tilian’s gaze shifts to Andrew, eyes slightly wide, like he forgot he isn’t alone. “No, well, yes,” Tilian says, shaking his head a bit to clear it. “Something is very wrong, but I think you already knew that. The problem is that _I_ didn’t know.”

Andrew nods for lack of a better response. Tilian is looking past him now, taking in the beautiful view that Mount Satellite’s height provides. Out in the distance, a fog of pure darkness is brewing like a hellish thunderstorm, prepared to leave nothing but destruction in its wake.

“And it’s so much worse than I could’ve ever imagined.”


	3. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a fabled mountain, Lord and mortal make a pact, then broker peace with Chaos...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before this chapter begins, I'd just like to take a moment to wholeheartedly thank everyone who's left such kind praise on this piece! All of you have been so welcoming of me and my writing, and for that you have my utmost gratitude.
> 
> I also greatly appreciate your patience in regard to the somewhat excessive time it takes for me to update/post my work. I tend to work on several projects at a time, which isn't exactly the most efficient of methodologies, but is particularly effective at keeping me busy. That being said, I hope to post here at least once a month (whether it be an update to this piece or something else entirely). I'm usually pretty good with schedules, so I'll try to keep to this one as best as I can! 
> 
> Anyways, thanks again, and here's the second chapter of Tail Feathers. Enjoy!

“What can we do?”

Andrew is surprised by not only the words he finds himself saying, but also the way he says them, his voice steady and controlled. Tilian seems taken aback as well, though the shock soon fades into resolve as the Swan Lord regards Andrew appreciatively.

“Well,” Tilian says, the gears almost visibly turning in his head, “whatever’s happening, it’s unnatural. I can’t fix it myself, and there’s only one person I know who can help us.” A deep sorrow grows within the Swan Lord’s eyes as he speaks, and his voice decreases in volume until it’s barely above a whisper. “Hopefully he isn’t the one causing all this.”

Andrew turns his gaze to the ground when Tilian trails off, wants to make it clear that he isn’t taking the Swan Lord’s openness for granted. In a show of loyalty, of faith, Andrew crouches down to collect his guitar case, latching it closed before slinging it over his shoulder.

“Let’s go, then,” Andrew says, looking Tilian dead in the eye. He knows he should be scared, or at least hesitant, but all the fear that’d been consuming him before is gone now. It’s an oddly revelatory realization; in this moment, Andrew feels above his emotions, like he’s being driven by something else entirely.

Tilian nods in response, collecting himself a bit. Then, still maintaining eye contact with Andrew, the Swan Lord puts out his right hand, palm up, as if it’s a sort of offering. Andrew isn’t quite sure what to make of the gesture at first, was expecting Tilian to explain more about where they’re going, or maybe even start leading the way down the mountain, but soon finds himself taking the hand presented to him, fingers almost instinctually wrapping around Tilian’s palm.

Andrew can feel his heart clench when Tilian proceeds to curl his own fingers and complete the clasp, the Swan Lord’s fingertips pushing down on to the back of Andrew’s hand. The sensation is so much stronger than before, a burn that’s igniting every single one of his nerve endings, and part of Andrew is afraid that he might spontaneously combust.

“Okay,” Tilian says, his voice sounding strange in Andrew’s ears, like it’s coming from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. “Now, whatever you do, don’t let go.”

Andrew wants to say something in response, to ask about the purpose of Tilian’s warning or tell the Swan Lord that whatever it is they’re doing might not be the best idea, but it hurts to move, to think, to do anything at all. He feels incredibly sluggish, as if the world’s spinning in slow motion around him, and his chest is getting tighter with every breath he takes. Summoning all of his willpower, Andrew squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to return his body to some semblance of normality.

Somehow this decision makes everything worse, and Andrew is suddenly overcome with the feeling that he’s not only on fire, but also freezing. The shock of these now competing afflictions hits him like a blow to the jaw, causing his eyes to immediately and involuntarily shoot back open in alarm.

And with vision thrust upon him once again, Andrew finds, in a moment of déjà vu, that his surroundings have significantly changed.

Andrew is no longer on the peak of Mount Satellite, but rather floating in an endless, featureless void, vacant and bleak like a night sky without stars. The only thing he can see in the emptiness is Tilian, light pouring off his eyes and wings, his hand still clutching tight to Andrew’s. Any other time, the sight would be awe-inspiring, but, currently, Andrew’s body is being pushed to its physical and mental limits, leaving him with the capacity for no emotion other than terror. 

And yet, in the back of his mind, amid the storm of internal screaming and unadulterated panic, Andrew has the fleeting thought that Sergio’s still waiting for him at the bottom of Mount Satellite.

#

Despite the impossibility of such a reality, it feels like they’ve been stranded in the nothingness forever.

Andrew knows, in the ever logical, ever optimistic part of his brain, that he hasn’t been holding on to Tilian’s hand for long, a few minutes at most. Due to the agony he’s undergoing, though, every second seems closer to a millennium, and each one that passes leaves rationality slipping further from his grasp.

It’s at this point, as Andrew desperately rallies against the pain that’s completely engulfing him, trying not to let go of his sanity, that he suddenly notices he's returned to standing on solid ground.

Andrew blinks once, twice as this realization hits him, trying to process the seemingly instantaneous visual shift that's affected everything around him. What was once utter darkness is now much more idyllic, with the sun and blue sky once again hovering above Andrew, while ankle high grass and patches of colorful flowers grow around his feet.

After glancing around a bit in shock, Andrew’s gaze lands back on Tilian, who still hasn’t broken the clasp he initiated with Andrew on Mount Satellite. The Swan Lord smiles softly when Andrew’s eyes meet his own, the gesture immediately relaxing Andrew, even with all the suffering he’d just experienced. Tilian’s supernaturally soothing aura is almost intoxicating with the Swan Lord so close, quickly able to coax the tension and lingering aches from Andrew’s muscles and slow his all too rapid breathing and heartbeat.

They stand like this for a few long moments, silent as they bask in the power that Tilian holds, the blessing of his mere existence. Then Tilian appears to decide that enough time has passed, that Andrew is no longer significantly distressed, and gently removes his hand from Andrew’s grasp.

This doesn’t bother Andrew at first. He knows exactly when Tilian lets go of him, is aware of how his body temperature drops back to a normal level and his ribs are no longer bearing down upon his organs; it’s as if he's been freed from a straightjacket. The illusion of reacquired normalcy is only shattered when Andrew goes to move, the desired motion nothing more than an experimental flex of his fingers.

With a mixture of horror and fascination, Andrew swears he can feel every synapse that fires as his body complies with his command, the shock running up and down his arm equivalent to what he imagines being struck by lightning is like. This starts a domino effect of sorts, with the sunlight proceeding to become too bright for Andrew’s eyes, the wind too loud in his ears, the flowers too sweet for his nose. He can only assume that having prolonged contact with Tilian has dulled his senses, left them fried, but Andrew has buckled on to his hands and knees before he can even come to this conclusion, vomiting the remnants of his breakfast into the grass.

Despite being hunched over on the ground, bile and half-digested food burning the inside of his throat, Andrew can still see Tilian’s reaction to his collapse out of the corner of his eye, the way the Swan Lord flinches and pulls a sharp breath in through his teeth. Acting out of his instinct to comfort, to stabilize, Tilian reaches forward to place his hand on Andrew’s back, then, at the last second, seems to think better of his decision and lets his arm fall to his side.

It’s not long before nothing remains in Andrew’s stomach to be purged, and, after going through a few harsh bouts of dry heaving, he slowly forces himself to sit up, gulping down air as he trembles uncontrollably. He’s dizzy and overwhelmed, but, as far as he can tell, the worst of the aftereffects caused by whatever Tilian had done to him are finally over.

“Are you, uh, are you okay?”

Tilian’s inherently soothing voice echoes off the walls of Andrew’s skull, pulling him out of his thoughts. The question is laced with poorly concealed guilt and anxiety, and Andrew can’t help but feel like a child as he sits there at Tilian’s feet, barely able to cope with being exposed to the Swan Lord’s godly abilities. Though the difference between them was obvious before, it’s even starker now.

“I think so,” Andrew replies, elbows resting on his thighs as he massages his temples. The dizziness and nausea that have been plaguing him are fading quickly, but a headache seems keen on replacing them.

“I’m really sorry,” Tilian says, prompting Andrew to tilt his head to look at the Swan Lord standing over him, pain flaring behind his eyes as he does. “I shouldn’t have done that. Mortals aren’t meant to experience a Flash, but it would’ve taken us too long to walk, and…”

Tilian’s rambling continues even after Andrew is no longer able to make sense of what he’s saying, the Swan Lord’s tone becoming more and more frantic as he desperately tries to explain himself. Eventually, it becomes clear to Andrew that if he doesn’t intervene, Tilian might not ever notice that Andrew isn’t following his train of thought at all.

“Hey,” Andrew says, and he can almost physically feel his heart drop at how suddenly Tilian stops talking, the Swan Lord’s mouth closing with an audible click. If Tilian’s upset by Andrew interrupting him, though, he doesn’t show it, not even with something as minute as a roll of the eyes or a glare, so Andrew presses on. “It’s alright. I–” As he’s speaking, Andrew realizes that he doesn’t even know what he wants to say, let alone what he needs to say. Rather than trying to figure either of these things out, he instead decides to change the subject, to get some answers. “Where are we?”

“Oh!” Tilian says, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him that Andrew was still pretty much completely out of the loop in regard to everything happening around them. “We’re on the very edge of the Valley of Dreaming. I can only Flash to points within my Domain, so we still have a little further to go. But I think I was right. I think he’s where I thought he’d be.”

Andrew considers this for a moment, tries using context clues to glean useful information from Tilian’s words. He assumes that “Flash” must refer to however Tilian moved them from the peak of Mount Satellite to this place, the Valley of Dreaming. Andrew is also familiar with the concept of different parts of the earth being under the influence of different Swan Lords, so the “Domain” Tilian mentioned isn’t too confusing to Andrew, either.

It’s the second half of what Tilian said that Andrew’s having a difficult time grasping. Tilian has yet to explicitly state who exactly the “he” they’re trying to find is, and Andrew doesn’t know why. What Andrew does know, however, is that he’d rather not keep Tilian or this other mysterious “him” waiting, so, teeth clenched, he fixes the askew guitar case still strapped to his back and begins the grueling process of rising to his feet.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Tilian asks, looking as if the restraint he needs to invoke to stop himself from “helping” Andrew again is tremendous.

“Yes,” Andrew responds, against his better judgement, because there’s no way he’s giving up now.

#

Once Andrew feels steady enough on his feet to walk, Tilian begins leading him in the direction of the sun.

There’s something undeniably poetic about it, about being guided toward the light by a god, and Andrew makes a mental note to write a song about it once this is all over. Well, as long as he manages to live through whatever “this” is. For his own sake, Andrew tries not to think too hard about what he and Tilian are doing. Instead, he focuses on the desired outcome of their actions, on fixing whatever has gone terribly wrong with the world.

As these thoughts run through his head, Andrew also reminds himself to keep an eye on the aforementioned Swan Lord, who’s a few paces ahead of him. Tilian navigates the landscape like it’s in his blood to do so, which it very well might be, his movements quick and graceful. Andrew’s sure he wouldn’t be able to keep up even if he tried, but he doesn’t want to be accidentally left behind, either.

Thankfully for Andrew, Tilian apparently wasn’t understating the distance they had left to travel. Each step they take seems to overtly, if not drastically, change the environment around them, the grass becoming shorter and the ground less level. It never occurred to Andrew that moving between Domains would be so jarring, so noticeable.

Before long, Andrew can see a place where the land ends, the smell of salt and sound of crashing waves assaulting his senses. Their journey has led them to the expanse of a breathtaking seaside cliff, the space beyond it bathed in varying shades of blue and gray. Andrew’s so caught up in the majesty of the scene that he nearly walks right into Tilian, who has stopped dead in his tracks.

“Jon!” Tilian calls out, his voice partially dampened by the ocean breeze whistling past them.

Despite this obstruction, however, Tilian’s shout seems to have the desired effect. Looking over the Swan Lord’s shoulder, Andrew notices a vaguely humanoid silhouette in front of them, shifting as it seemingly turns to face him and Tilian. Though he doesn’t dare get closer, to move between Tilian and whatever’s standing at the cliff’s edge, Andrew can’t help but squint against the sunlight, desperate to make out the details of the shadow.

With some effort, Andrew’s able to discern what appears to be a man notably shorter than Tilian wearing a black t-shirt and paint stained jeans. He has unkempt brown hair and a piercing gaze, a steady stream of brilliantly red blood carving a path from his left eye to his jawline. Two sets of ivory colored horns spiral out from the top of his head, so bright that it seems like they’re absorbing light from everything around them.

As he’s looking at this person, drinking him in, Andrew feels his breath catch in the back of his throat. The entity in front of him isn’t exactly how Andrew always imagined him, much like Tilian, but the horns and ever falling tear of blood are enough to awaken memories of ancient myths from the depths of Andrew’s mind. This is another of the almighty Swan Lords: the Lord of Chaos.

Or, as Tilian had so casually referred to him, “Jon.”

“Tilian?” Jon asks, apparently recognizing his fellow Swan Lord. His voice is surprisingly soft, not at all intimidating or dark. There’s confusion in his tone, carefully masking something that Andrew can only really describe as hope.

“Yeah,” Tilian confirms, speaking a little quieter. Andrew can’t bring himself to do anything but watch as the two Swan Lords begin to slowly walk toward each other, caution coloring their movements. The tension surrounding them is so thick it’s nearly palpable, and Andrew swears he can feel some sort of energy crackling in the air, as if lightning’s about to strike.

“I…I don’t–” Jon’s face is scrunched up in thought, head tilted down to survey the ground in front of him. He seems reluctant to look at Tilian, who’s only a few steps away from him now.

There’s silence for a few moments, then Tilian inches just a little closer to Jon, his movements reminiscent of how one might approach a wild animal. “Listen to me, Jon–”

At these words, Jon’s posture suddenly shifts, his gaze snapping up to finally land on Tilian as he apparently comes to some sort of conclusion about what’s happening. “You think I’m the one causing this, don’t you?” Jon asks, gesturing around himself. There’s something unnatural creeping into his voice, a power that he must’ve been suppressing before. “You think I’m going to be the next one to Fall!”

It’s impossible to miss the way Tilian cringes at the accusation, and Andrew feels himself react similarly. It’s like Jon has transformed into a completely different person within the span of seconds, chaos radiating off him as strongly as stability radiates off Tilian.

“I had to make sure,” Tilian says, running a hand through his hair. He’s getting worked up, emotions running higher than they’d been even at the peak of Mount Satellite. “After what happened with–”

“Don’t say his name,” Jon growls out, a crimson glow beginning to emanate from his eyes. The ground shakes ever so slightly when he speaks, as if the earth itself is beginning to buckle under the weight of his rage.

“I’m sorry. I was just…” Tilian sighs, the fight draining out of him as he bows his head in shame. His wings are curled around him, like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. “I was just worried.”

To Andrew, the sentence seems unfinished, lacking sufficient explanation, but Jon seems to understand completely. All of the anger he’d been harboring melts away just as quickly as it’d appeared, his expression softening and irises cooling to a soothing brown. “I know,” Jon says after a couple moments, his voice returned to its original, gentle state. “I’m sorry, too.”

Following their apologies, the two Swan Lords just look at each other, a second, this time silent, exchange passing between them. Then, their differences apparently put aside, Jon and Tilian act as the epitome of old friends reuniting and simultaneously pull each other in for a hug.

Andrew observes this, his heart full as relief washes over him. He averts his gaze from the sight before long, feeling like he’s witnessing something private, something he isn’t meant to be seeing, but, even so, the warmth of it remains settled over him, pure and comforting.

Tilian might be the Lord of Stability, but this, an understanding between order and chaos, is true balance.

Eventually, Andrew glances back at the two Swan Lords to find that they’ve broken their embrace and are now standing next to each other, shoulders brushing. Tilian’s eyes meet Andrew’s and the grin already resting on his face broadens further, inviting Andrew to approach him and Jon. There’s a noticeable gap between his two front teeth, likely explaining why he’d been so reluctant to smile open-mouthed at any point before this one. The imperfection is inexplicably charming.

As he begins walking over to join the two Swan Lords, Andrew’s focus shifts from Tilian to Jon, who has fixed him with a particularly withering stare. It makes the hair on the back of Andrew’s neck stand up and a shiver run down his spine, but he keeps moving anyway, desperately trying to remember how to breathe.

“You see him, too, right?” Jon asks Tilian when Andrew finally stops in front of them, eyes narrowed in suspicion as his gaze flits from Tilian to Andrew then back to Tilian.

“Yes, Jon, I see him,” Tilian replies, his words punctuated with laughter. “I was the one who brought him here.”

“Ugh.” Jon runs a hand down his face, posture worsening in an exaggerated show of exhaustion. “We have to go see Will, don’t we?”

Tilian just nods in response, throwing his arm over Jon’s shoulders good-naturedly.


End file.
